The morning mist in the Alps had not yet fully dispersed when Lionel, treading a dew-kissed path, walked towards Saint-Joseph School at the foot of the Alps.
This was his "alma mater," and as The Cosmos newspaper put it, "the place that shaped his soul."
Today, he was going to teach a class for the children of his "alma mater."
Saint-Joseph School had originally been converted from an abandoned small chapel, and now it was even more dilapidated than Lionel remembered.
Large patches of plaster had peeled off the stone walls, and several tiles on the roof were missing, roughly patched with wooden planks.
The heavy oak door, which once required several children to push open together, now hung askew, groaning in protest every time its hinges moved.
The only bright spot was the faded but still legible white sign above the door, which read "Saint-Joseph School" with a cross at the top.
The classroom was dim and cold, the high vaulted ceiling making the space feel particularly empty, and the air was thick with a mingled scent of old books, damp wood, and cheap ink.
Greeting him was the school's only teacher for the past forty years, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Reynaud.
He was very old, his back severely hunched, like an ancient tree bent by the mountain winds.
Monsieur Reynaud had lived a life of poverty; his nominal monthly salary of 90 francs was actually only 60 francs in hand—
The other 30 francs were withheld by the local priest under the sacred pretexts of "supporting church affairs" and "donations."
Over forty years, three priests had served here, and each one managed to come up with new reasons.
This meager income meant he never married, yet it was this nearly destitute old man who gave Lionel his initial intellectual awakening and his love for words.
They had met a few days earlier, and Lionel still felt a pang of sadness.
Lionel tightly clasped his teacher's cold, rough hand:
"Monsieur Reynaud, I'm here!"
Monsieur Reynaud surveyed the empty, cold classroom, his voice low:
"Good, good... I'm glad you came. Lionel... Saint-Joseph is not the same as when you were here...
Times are hard.
Everyone thinks studying is useless; knowing a few words and how to count is enough.
Better to go home early to tend sheep, chop wood, or be sent to a workshop as an apprentice.
At least they can save a meal, and even earn a few sous..."
As he spoke, the children began to arrive, one after another.
There were fewer children than Lionel had anticipated, only about two dozen, of varying ages.
The youngest were only six, timidly clutching the sleeves of older children; the oldest were thirteen or fourteen, tall and thin, with stubborn and wary expressions.
Most of their shoes didn't fit, and their faces lacked color.
Lionel stood before the rough blackboard at the front of the classroom.
There was no podium, so Monsieur Reynaud offered him his own creaky old chair.
Lionel looked at the pairs of eyes before him: large, small, naive, precocious, curious, wary...
His prepared lesson plan on French grammar or historical stories suddenly seemed so pale and inadequate.
He cleared his throat, attempting to begin with basic greetings, wanting to speak of the power of words, the vastness of knowledge.
But soon, he realized it wouldn't work.
The children couldn't concentrate for long; they had no interest in sermons.
What interested them more was Lionel himself.
Sure enough, before he had spoken for a few minutes, a slightly bolder boy couldn't help but raise his hand and interrupt him:
"Monsieur Sorel, are houses in Paris really as tall as mountains?
Can you reach out and touch the clouds?"
A buzz of discussion immediately filled the classroom.
Another little girl, her eyes sparkling, asked:
"I heard the priest say that Parisians don't go to Mass and dance in the streets all day. Is that true?
Don't they... don't they fear going to hell?"
An older boy was even more direct; he practically shouted his question:
"Monsieur Sorel, everyone says you can earn 10,000 francs a year in Paris! Is that true?
How many things can 10,000 francs buy? Can you never spend it all?"
This question elicited gasps from all the children; even the most wary teenager looked up.
Lionel was stunned, then smiled—he realized that this was when the lesson truly began!
He put down the chalk, walked among the children, and simply pulled up a bench to sit on.
"Houses in Paris are indeed very tall, but they're not mountains; they're called 'apartments,' and one building can house many, many people.
However, you can't touch the clouds, but from a high vantage point, you can see far-off scenery, just like when we stand on a mountain."
Lionel cleverly steered the conversation towards areas familiar to the children.
Regarding the Parisians' faith, he deliberated for a moment and answered cautiously:
"There are many, many people in Paris. Some devoutly go to church, while others choose different ways to find inner peace.
What's important is kindness and integrity, isn't it? Whether in Montiel or in Paris."
Directly challenging the priest's authority now would undoubtedly be unwise, but this answer was sufficiently broad-minded.
To the most practical question—10,000 francs—he burst out laughing:
"10,000 francs sounds like a lot, but things are also very expensive in Paris! A loaf of bread might cost several sous, and renting a small room can cost hundreds of francs."
"So, it's not inexhaustible. What's important is that earning money requires knowledge and ability."
With every answer, he tried to be more honest and humorous, making sure the children could understand.
"Want to know why Paris has so many tall buildings? It's because there are many people who know how to calculate there."
"Factories, newspapers, shops—they all need people who can read and write, and who understand principles, to work."
"And these abilities, here at Saint-Joseph, Monsieur Reynaud will teach you, just as he taught me years ago."
"The reason I could go to Paris, and could write, is precisely because I sat here years ago, and Monsieur Reynaud taught me how to read and study."
The classroom atmosphere became lively, with children clamoring to ask all sorts of questions.
Lionel patiently answered, striving to build a bridge between them and the wider world.
Monsieur Reynaud sat in the corner, his face showing a mix of gratification and complex emotions.
Lionel noticed that the oldest boy, with his wary expression, remained silent.
The teenager also noticed Lionel's gaze, and suddenly offered a sneering smile:
"Monsieur Sorel, you've said so much. Studying is good, knowledge is a key...
Monsieur Reynaud often says these things too. But what we want to know is—
If we study, learn to read, count, and understand principles, will we really be able to leave here, go to Paris, and earn 10,000 francs a year, just like you?"
The classroom instantly fell silent.
All the children's gazes, including Monsieur Reynaud's, which was filled with both anticipation and a hint of trepidation, focused on Lionel.
This question concerned hope, concerned disillusionment; it was the most genuine confusion of these children from the Alps.
Lionel fell silent.
He couldn't easily give a false promise.
He knew that for most of these children, the path to Paris and "success" remained narrow to the point of despair.
Class, poverty, regional discrimination... these were all obstacles more insurmountable than the Alps.
Knowledge was a weapon, but not everyone could acquire equally fine equipment, nor could everyone win in the brutal competition.
He took a deep breath, carefully choosing his words, pondering how to both protect their hope and not shy away from the harsh realities, how to tell them that the meaning of education went far beyond "earning 10,000 francs a year" when—
With a "bang," the old classroom door was abruptly pushed open!
Everyone startled and turned their heads, seeing a postman leaning breathlessly against the doorframe, clearly having run all the way up the mountain.
Waving a thick envelope in his hand, he gasped:
"Mon... Monsieur Lionel Sorel! Good news! Absolutely amazing news!
A money order and letter from Paris... from Paris! They say... they say a 'friend in Paris' has donated to Montiel!"
Lionel was somewhat bewildered, completely unaware of what was happening, and instinctively asked:
"A donation? How much?"
The postman replied in an astonished tone:
"Twe... twenty thousand francs!"
This figure exploded like a clap of thunder in the dilapidated classroom.
The children's mouths dropped open, their eyes wide as saucers—twenty thousand francs!
Even Monsieur Reynaud stood up in shock, adjusting his glasses that had slipped to the tip of his nose.
The postman then added:
"The 'friend in Paris' says this money is for you to collect, and for you to decide entirely how to distribute it...
The mayor is waiting at the post office right now. When... when will you go?"
All eyes once again focused on Lionel, filled with disbelief, ecstasy, and a reverence that was almost superstitious.
The tall, thin teenager who had just posed the ultimate question was also stunned, frozen in place.
He looked at Lionel, his gaze no longer scornful, but rather a daze as if lost in a cloud.
At this moment, the abstract and difficult relationship between "knowledge" and "success" was instantly materialized by this sudden, tangible "twenty thousand francs."
Lionel's head was spinning—he was supposed to distribute twenty thousand francs?
It seemed this precious vacation was about to be ruined!
(End of Chapter)
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